In a Blizzard Near Closeburn
The land pole-axed under a buttered sky,
road signs peppered white,
only the bones of trees black,
and the dykes like consonants
pointing to a dim rind of hills.
Over there, a kraal of cottages
with battened down babies
and dogs smoldering in front of fires.
Over there, the faint orange morse
of a car signaling the end to this week’s
technology. Shin deep in it,
I stretch out my arms to feel the punch
of winter. The age old thrill,
and fear, of meeting the Boss.